"WHEREFORE I PRAISED THE DEAD, MORE THAN THE LIVING."
King Solomon.
They dread no storm that lowers,
No perish'd joys bewail,
They pluck no thorn-clad flowers,
Nor drink of streams that fail,
There is no tear-drop in their eye,
No change upon their brow,
The placid bosom heaves no sigh,
Though all earth's idols bow.
Who are so greatly blest?—
From whom hath sorrow fled?—
Who share such deep, unbroken rest
While all things toil?The dead!
The holy dead!—why weep ye so
Above the sable bier?—
Thrice blessed!—they have done with wo,
The living claim the tear.
Go to their sleeping bowers,
Deck their low couch of clay
With early spring's uncolour'd flowers,
And when they fade away,
Think of the amaranthine wreath
The bright bowers never dim,
And tell me why thou fly'st from death
Or hid'st thy friends from him?—
